


Field of Spirits

by kj_graham



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Broken Mustard Bottles, Castiel is Done, Dean is clueless, F/M, Fluff, I don't quite know what I'm doing, I left some tags out so that I don't give anything away, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Non-Hunter Winchesters (Supernatural), Things get very dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 21:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kj_graham/pseuds/kj_graham
Summary: The third time that the bathroom cabinet falls entirely off of its brand new hinges, Dean Winchester has to admit that he's fed up. The mustard, too, freshly bought a week ago, has made the suicide leap out of a closed refrigerator to burst open on the floor, covering the shoddy tiles in bright yellow paste.Dean Winchester co-owns and works at a small auto shop. He has finally acclimated to the quiet humdrum atmosphere of the small Kansas town where he lives, so, naturally, his apartment seems to suddenly be throwing disembodied hissy fits. Go figure. Then he meets the medium that works in the little psychic shop out on Hoadley, and...well...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone may be a little OOC. I'm not entirely sure about what I'm doing!! I am, however, super passionate about this idea, so there's that. Some tags (and a warning) have been excluded to keep some mystery to the plot. Enjoy!!
> 
> and to Molly, even though you aren't a big SPN person, thanks for being incredible. To Neha--thanks for being this fic's cheerleader!

The third time that the bathroom cabinet falls entirely off of its brand new hinges, Dean Winchester has to admit that he's fed up. The mustard, too, freshly bought a week ago, has made the suicide leap out of a closed refrigerator to burst open on the floor, covering the shoddy tiles in bright yellow paste.

The first time this happened, Dean thought maybe it was just some freak occurrence. He figured that maybe the mustard had fallen while he wasn't paying attention, and seen as he rarely opened the bathroom cabinet, there was the possibility the hinges had just gotten old. He knew that, mechanically, cabinet doors didn't spontaneously fall off, but what other explanation did he have?

The second time was fishy, but could've just been a weird coincidence. There seemed to be plenty of those in Dean's life, so it was easy enough to ignore. He was tired enough without investigating his own house. If mirrors started wailing or something crawled ass-first down his stairs he'd do something about it, but a busted cabinet door and some wasted mustard just weren't enough to bring out the cavalry.

But this time. Dean has had enough. He's had to buy three jars of mustard in as many weeks.

But his mirrors don't quiver and his stairs are vacant.

He goes on a hunt for the culprit.

"Dean," his brother groans, "when would I have the time to break one exclusive cabinet door and shatter a jar of mustard?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean says. "Maybe you'd better answer that question yourself."

"Oh my god, Dean," Sam says, and Dean can just picture him scrubbing a hand down his face. "I'm neck-deep in a case and you know how busy Jess and I are with preparations for the wedding. I promise I'm not sneaking into your apartment to prank you every week. And if this is a prank, it's super shitty. Maybe you're just drunk."

"Drunk my ass," Dean snaps. "What about some of your gang? That slimy legal aide, what's his face. Gabriel. He never liked me."

"Gabriel has no idea where you live. And before you ask, neither does Kevin."

Dean huffs. "Yeah, well, I keep telling you to invite him over. Kid deserves a good burger, skinny as he is."

"Okay, Dean, listen, before you start accusing or mothering any more of my firm's innocent employees, I have to go. I'll talk to you later. Don't get murdered by your ketchup bottle in the meantime."

"Shut up, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam chirps, and hangs up.

Dean rolls his eyes. Leave it to his goody lawyer brother to tell him he's just drunk. Whatever.

Dean still doesn't have an answer two days later. He's asked the boys at Benny's, asked around his and Jo's auto shop, and even reached out to Charlie. He's gotten a lot of chuckles and too many insinuations that he's just blackout drunk, but no real answers, and his google searches of "mustard jar shattering" and "cabinet door randomly breaking" brought up helpful cleanup tips, but no explanations.

Charlie, however, did have one seed of advice. "There's always the psychic shop out on Hoadley. I mean, not that your apartment's haunted. But, you know. What google can't solve dudes with tarot cards can, or something."

He's never believed in psychics, not really. He thinks it's a load of horse crap just meant to pump money out of the naive. God knows there are enough dumb people in the world to trust some musty old hag in coke bottle glasses when they're told they'll die or find true love or die as they find true love. Or whatever.

Dean tries more google searches before he goes looking for the shop. He even scrolls through two reddit forums and a few rather lame articles depicting "hauntings" where the scariest thing the ghost had done was leave a fingerprint in the mirror fog.

So not Dean's cup of tea. His dad, sure. The man loved his conspiracy theories and loved his ghost hunting just as much. Sometimes Dean thought that maybe he even believed some of it. There was one time his dad had, drunk out of his mind, brought up the idea to Dean that his mom had been killed by a demon. Dean had been nine and had to start sleeping with one light on, but eventually he outgrew it. Just another load of horse crap, in his ripe old twenty-seven-year-old opinion.

He has to admit defeat when his internet searches prove mostly fruitless. Well, unless he was looking for idiots. He's pretty sure that's not the answer here.

On Wednesday night, after he rinses off all the grease and engine oil in a quick shower, he makes the drive over to Hoadley, the kind of Main Street out here in the somewhat-boonies.

At least nothing's messed with his car. There'd be a special kind of hell to pay if anything so much as breathed the wrong way on his Baby, his classic, classy Impala.

She definitely trumps the two cars in the parking lot of the little psychic shop. One is a red Volvo, an older model with slightly balding tires. The other is a '78 Lincoln Continental, which is the worst pimp vehicle Dean has ever seen. He pictures a musty old hag with coke bottle glasses driving it and almost turns around and drives straight back home.

But he's used the gas to get here. And he made the mistake of telling Charlie he was gonna stop by the shop, and she made him promise to give her a lowdown afterward. Of course, part of it was Dean promised to scout out any hot girls for her, but whatever. Either way she'll never let him hear the end of it if he turns around.

The shop itself is this dingy little gray brick building. The walls look like they desperately need some power washing and the neon "open" sign in the window is dim. There's a tapestry hanging in the window and a spread of tarot cards on the sill.

Dean rolls his eyes at the sign advertising palm readings, tarot readings, and crystal ball divination, but at least the sign also advertises a practicing spirit medium. Whatever that really means. Dean's only seen glimpses of the really obnoxious Long Island chick with the super-teased hair on late-night TV.

Oh god. If he has to deal with coke bottle glasses lady and a leopard-print Jersey diva of a medium he's gonna die. He suddenly rethinks who it is that's driving the Continental. Yeesh. Maybe taking Charlie's advice wasn't such a good idea.

But, of course, by the time he has this epiphany, he's already opening the door and a little bell is ringing, announcing his entrance.

In the very bohemian interior of the shop, where there are more tapestries and a curtain of mismatched wooden beads covers a doorway at the other end of the little main room, with its posters of eyes and six-fingered hands and fierce-looking big cats, Dean feels suddenly out of place and awkward in his work boots and flannel. As he gazes around the shop--there's a surprising amount of decoration involving bees--someone clears their throat from behind him, and Dean whips around.

There's a woman standing there, staring at him. Her head barely clears Dean's shoulder, but she's got her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. She ain't wearing coke bottle glasses or leopard print, which is kind of relieving for Dean. Actually, she's wearing a leather jacket and dark eye makeup and red lipstick, and her hair isn't teased, just falls in dark curls down over her shoulders.

"Uh, can I help you?" Dean says.

"I don't know," she says, in one of the most distinctive voices he's ever heard. "Can we help you?"

Dean blinks.

The woman smirks at him.

The beaded curtain rattles. "Meg, stop scaring our customers."

Dean turns his head. Lo and behold, that deep rasp does indeed belong to a man. A man that definitely doesn't fit Dean's definition of psychic. Actually, he looks overwhelmingly average, wearing a t-shirt with a realistic drawing of a bee printed on it, wings fanned, and blue jeans. And, uh, no shoes. Interesting. Other than that the weirdest thing about him is his dark hair, all messy like he just got laid. Dean tries not to follow the line of the man's jaw, covered in stubble, but doesn't quite succeed.

The man tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at Dean staring.

"Uh, sorry," Dean says. For the second time, he jabs a thumb back toward the door. "I was just wondering if I could speak with the medium?"

"I'm him," the man says. He glances at Meg and then steps to the side, gesturing through the beaded curtain. "You can join me back here, if you'd like."

Dean nods. He doesn't look at Meg as he crosses the shop and follows barefoot bee shirt dude into the little room. There's a table on one side, and very Addams family-esque antique furniture on the other: a couch and two Queen Anne armchairs and a low coffee table. Dean goes for one of the faded pink armchairs.

The man doesn't join him yet. He's bustling around in the corner, where there's a big tall cabinet.

Dean's not sure what he should be expecting right now. He's hoping whatever this is isn't gonna involve tarot cards or the creases of his palms or any of the touristy bullshit.

But when the man does come over, all he's carrying are candles.

"My name is Castiel," he says as he arranges the candles in a triangle on the coffee table.

"I'm Dean."

Castiel nods. "Hello, Dean. What can I help you with today?"

"Well, uh," Dean says. He scrubs at the back of his neck. "I dunno, it might be nothin'."

"Or it could be something," Castiel intones, lighting the three mismatched candles. "But if it's a reading you're looking for, you'd be better off coming back when my partner is here."

Something in Dean sinks at those words. He sweeps his eyes over Castiel's face, the smooth column of his throat. A partner. Unsurprising.

"Of course, we split the week. I work on Mondays and Wednesdays and she takes Thursdays and Fridays. We're usually both here on Tuesdays."

"Oh, yeah," Dean says. "Me and my business partner do the same thing. Must get weird for you, though."

Castiel tilts his head. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You know," Dean says. "Must be weird to work with the same chick you live with."

There's a beat. Then Castiel's eyes--wickedly, ethereally blue--go comically wide and he flushes bright red.

"Oh," he sputters. "No, Pamela and I are not partners in that manner. Strictly business."

Well, fuck, there goes that first impression. "Oh," Dean says. "Sorry, man, I thought...well, I mean, obviously I thought wrong."

"Yes," Castiel says, tone hesitant. "but it's not a big deal. I am serious when I say you should come back to the shop another time if you're looking for a reading, though. Pamela is much better with tarot and palm and divination. That's not quite my skillset."

Dean swallows. He feels a terrible urge to explore Castiel's skillset. But he just insulted him, insinuated he was in a relationship with his fucking business partner, for crying out loud.

"So then, what is your skillset?"

Castiel looks up from where he's been studying the flickering candles and says in a perfectly calm, monotone voice, "I know how to communicate with the dead and do so on a regular basis. This morning I was talking to my neighbor's three-month deceased grandmother while I took a shower."

Dean chokes on his spit. Castiel doesn't seem surprised by the reaction.

"You," Dean gasps, "I'm sorry. You what now?"

"I talk to the dead. This morning on my drive to work, Timothy, the poor teenager who committed suicide last fall, used my car radio to carry on a quite lovely discussion about wood bees."

Dean gapes. He can't help it. What else is he supposed to do other than gape.

Castiel's face is slightly smug. Dean wonders what kinda weirdo gets perverse enjoyment out of lying for a living. He's just about to start asking questions, start trying to get to the bottom of whether or not this dude is for real, when Castiel sits up straight and starts staring at a spot just over Dean's shoulder.

"Your mother died when you were very young," Castiel says. Dean freezes. "Mary Winchester had you and one other son and left you when you were four and your brother was just a baby."

"How," Dean hisses, "the fuck do you know that name?"

Castiel's responding smile is equal measure wry and morose. There's a bitterness and a sadness in those oceanic blue eyes of his. "She comes to visit you sometimes. She's here now. She has things she'd like me to tell you."

Dean stands so abruptly the armchair shoves back with a squalling, screeching scraping noise.

"Fuck you," he says to Castiel. "I don't know who called you and told you those things, but fuck you."

Then he turns on his heel, stalks out, and passes Meg with a stormy glare as she tries to so much as open her mouth to speak to him.

When he reaches the safety of Baby's drivers seat, Dean collapses bonelessly against his steering wheel. It's been a long time since someone's brought up his childhood so casually. The fact that Castiel knew. That's seriously unnerving. Dean wonders whether or not Castiel would've brought up how Mary died if he'd stayed. If Castiel would tell him Mary was in Heaven.

Dean shudders. He's never believed in this psychic crap and he ain't about to start now, which means Castiel found out a different way.

Dean drives.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean realizes he may have left too soon as things start to take a turn in his apartment...

Baby's purring engine and the best of Led Zeppelin aren't enough for Dean by the time he reaches his next destination.

"Charlie," he barks, pounding on her door. "It's me, open up!"

It takes a minute, but then he hears the sliding of a deadbolt and then the door opens to a Charlie that looks chipper if confused.

"Gotta say, dude, I was expecting a call and not a home visit after you went to the shop. How was it?"

Dean doesn't say anything, but Charlie seems to abruptly notice his foul mood.

"What happened?" she says. "It can't have been that bad, can it?"

"Charlie," Dean says. "Did you call that shop before I went there?"

Charlie takes a half-step back in surprise. Her face drops, expression scrunching into confusion. "What? No, of course not."

"So you didn't tell Cas about my mom? About how old Sam and I were when she died? You’re the only one who knew I was going!”

"Who's Cas?"

Dean slams an open palm onto the doorframe, and he hates how it makes Charlie jump, but he's too mad to care. "Just answer the damn question, Charlie."

"No, Dean," Charlie says, a confused and hurt edge in her voice. "I didn't call ahead just to tell a stranger about your mom. I would never do that to you, and honestly I'm a little miffed that you think I would."

Dean blinks. "You didn't?"

"No," Charlie repeats, indignant. She crosses her arms. "Dude, I gotta say I thought you had more trust in me than that. I don't even remember the name of the shop."

"Oh," Dean says softly, and then his knees buckle and he drags himself into Charlie's kitchen to drop heavily onto one of her chairs. "I'm sorry, Charlie."

"Nah, we're good," Charlie says. "Shit's confusing, I get it."

Dean drops his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. "That means he's the real deal."

They're quiet for a moment, and then Charlie asks what Castiel said.

Dean tells her without looking up from the table.

"That's, uh," Charlie says. "Yeah, Dean, that sounds like he's the real deal to me."

"Fuck," Dean mutters. "That means I have to go back."

"You don't have to," Charlie says. "But I mean, maybe he could tell you why your bathroom cabinet keeps falling apart and what has such a hatred for jars of mustard."

"And maybe he could tell me what my mom wanted to say to me."

Charlie nods. There's a soft, somewhat sad expression on her face. Dean knows she gets it, gets wanting another chance to talk.

Dean drags himself upright, apologizes again, and then heads home for the night.

In the days and nights leading up to Monday, when Dean knows Castiel will be at the shop again, he starts to dream about his mom. He hasn't in a few months, at the very least, and he isn't exactly pleased that he wakes up yelling for his dad and for Sam and choking on smoke that doesn't exist in his apartment.

Mary Winchester died in a freak accident. Their whole house went up in flames, and Dean's pretty sure it burnt his dad up, too, made him bitter and hollow. After she died John was distant, cold. Dean and Sam were alone in their shoddy rental home more often than not.

It had always been implicit (and explicit and all the grey areas in between) that Dean was supposed to look after Sam, John or no John.

But kids have mouths. Sam blabbed to a teacher when he was in the first grade that their dad was never home and his brother had to steal food for them when the money ran out.

They bounced, after that, from foster home to foster home. Only once were they separated, and Dean, brazen and weary and twelve, made it very, very clear that that was not to happen again.

They spent the most time with a man named Bobby. He knew of their father, had worked at the same garage for a couple of months, but something in the way he said “John Winchester” and the way his face got stony every time Dean mentioned John or Sam told a tale of being all alone and Dean having to climb onto the cabinet to reach food or medicine made it clear it was not a happy connection.

Gruff as Bobby was, Sam and Dean liked living with him. Eventually, Bobby met a sheriff in Sioux Falls, a woman named Jody Mills, and the boys found themselves in a pretty stable home.

It wasn’t perfect. John, after all, had had custody taken away but had never quite given up on his sons, and he showed up from time to time, standing in Bobby’s driveway with his hands in his jacket pockets.

Those visits never ended well. For one thing, Dean and Sam had very different views of their father. While Dean didn’t always like the man, there were things John did, orders he made, that Dean couldn’t help but follow.

Sam was more volatile. He was angry. Angry on Dean’s behalf, angry he had had to live with all these strange people that didn’t care about them other than the extra money it got them in their mailbox. John would try to give him advice and Sam would just explode.

Dean had to intervene if Bobby wasn’t already outside, and eventually Bobby learned to just be outside so that he could break things up.

And then it had to be Bobby and Jody, because John didn’t like Bobby fathering his boys one bit.

The last fight Dean remembers had been about college. Sam wanted to go. Wanted to go away to Stanford and become a well-respected lawyer. Bobby, Jody, Dean, they supported it, even if the words “college” and “Stanford” and “graduation” made something shrivel up and wail in the cage of Dean’s ribs.

John happened to see a letter the last time he was at Bobby Singer’s. He had invited himself in, reeking of whiskey, and saw Sam’s acceptance packet on the table.

John went ballistic. He had wanted Sam and Dean to join “the family business” when they were ready, had expected nothing less. Dean had agreed, had said he would after Sam graduated, but Sam…Sam had big dreams, big plans.

Dean supposes John did, too. They just weren’t the same.

That fight left Sam in tears. Sam Winchester, who would put on a fine facade until the cows came home, was left sobbing, seventeen and six four and leaning into the arms Jody threw around his shoulders, while Bobby forced John outside.

Dean went with, took every insult his father threw at him until John mentioned Sam, mentioned Mary, mentioned weak scrawny good-for-nothing kids, mentioned Bobby, and Dean saw red.

He thinks he might have broken John’s nose. He himself came out of it with a black eye, that wailing thing in his chest doused in ash and guilt and anger, but he stood tall and, when John drove away, let Bobby put an arm around his shoulders and guide him back to the house.

They let Dean ignore that he was crying, too.

Dean wonders, sometimes, what his father is up to now. He gave Dean the Impala one random night the September Sam was a Stanford freshman, drove away in a monster of a pickup, and Dean hasn't seen him since, even though sometimes they leave each other clipped, formal voicemails.

That's better than Sam, at least. Dean’s not sure they ever talked again after that muggy May night.

Dean plays these things on loop when he can't fall back to sleep: pranks he set on Sam in the bare rooms of their sad home once his baby brother was old enough to appreciate them. Bobby teaching Dean how to work cars. Jody reading Sam bedtime stories. Making Sam laugh. Dean finally biting the bullet to go visit him in Cali and loving the life his little brother had created for himself, with Jess and their little apartment and his studies. Dean moving out to Kansas and settling in for the long haul, catching up with his dad's old friends he hadn't seen in forever. Bobby helped him get a mechanic gig; Jo Harvelle helped him manage the mechanic gig and eventually promoted herself to his business partner and co-owner, which he had no mind to stop. Sam and Jess making the drive over to visit him in his new apartment, gift him some Jack Daniels for the housewarming present, and tell him that they were soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Winchester, laughing and grinning like sugar-high kids.

Dean Winchester has become fond of his life even when he can't find it in him to be fond of himself. He likes his job and his car and his friends, even if they feel few and far between. He loves his brother and likes going to Benny's bar so he can pick up one-night stands, whether they be chicks or dudes.

So when he's woken on Friday, at ass-crack o'clock in the morning, by the sound of glass shattering, he is thoroughly displeased. He thinks he'd prefer the dreams to more apartment carnage.

He drags himself out of bed only after all the crashing stops. He doesn't fancy getting flying glass shards to the face.

His kitchen is...destroyed. His glasses and, like, two mugs that both came from Sam, are in pieces and powder on the tile. His fridge is open, too, and all of his condiments are dripping from the shelves and the door.

His cabinets are missing doors or have broken shelves and he doesn't even want to talk about the shattered glasstop stove. Frankly, it looks like a bomb has gone off.

"Come on," he groans to the empty room. "Seriously? You got bored 'a the same old routine and went for _this_ instead? You couldn't have left the mayonnaise alone? The Stanford Law mug?"

His apartment doesn't offer an answer. Dean considers just leaving the mess for tomorrow, but he knows he'll be in too much of a rush in the morning. He vacuums up all the glass, sending a grimacing apology to his neighbors in his mind, and then goes through at least two rolls of paper towels trying to clean the disaster of a fridge yawning open into his kitchen.

"That's it," Dean mutters, swiping at a glob of ketchup. "No more. No more glass things, no more condiments. I'll just salt everything to death instead, how's that?"

By Monday, Dean is exhausted. His toothpaste exploded in his hand on Saturday morning, and Sunday night something in the walls started caterwauling and wouldn't stop no matter what Dean did, just kept wailing and screaming into the deep recesses of Monday morning while Dean held a pillow over his ears and cursed out every religious and mythological figure he could think of.

He is, surprisingly, very relieved to pull up to the psychic shop. The Continental is there, but the red Volvo is absent. Dean hopes that doesn't mean Castiel is absent. Touristy bullshit or no, he could really use a dude who could tell the ghost apparently freeloading in his place of residence to kindly fuck off.

When he opens the door, bell ringing, he sees that the woman from last time--the short one, what was her name? Megan?—is absent, but Castiel is lounging on a beanbag in the corner of the main room, a book open on his lap and mouthing words to himself. He doesn't look up immediately upon Dean's entrance.

Dean doesn't really have the patience to wait, though, so he clears his throat. Castiel startles, his head whips up, and he turns wide eyes on Dean. His face falls.

"Hello, Dean," he says, although the sound is cautious and maybe a little crestfallen.

"Uh, hey, Cas," Dean says. He doesn't notice the nickname until it's already past his lips. He cringes while Castiel tilts his head.

"Nobody's called me that before," he says slowly, "and I would not have placed us in enough of a friendly relationship for you to do so."

Yikes. Dean really fucked up this one.

"Listen," Dean sighs. "I'm sorry about the other day, man. I got..."

"Scared?" Castiel supplies. "You aren't the first one or the last one to freak out in response to what I can do. But I have to say I did not appreciate being told to fornicate myself."

Dean has, frankly, zero idea what he's supposed to say to that. He cringes and scrubs at the back of his neck with one hand. "Yeah, sorry about that. I didn't really mean it."

"I figured you didn't," Castiel says, a little more at ease. "I was just concerned you had come back to yell at me or egg my car."

Dean blinks. "People have come here just to egg your car?"

"Sure," Castiel says. "Or they choose to belittle me. Pamela does not ever let it get far, but we have had damages to the property in response to messages I've passed on. Grief and pain do powerful things, Dean Winchester, and not everyone is all that stellar at managing it."

Dean nods. He feels awkward and uncomfortable under Castiel's unwavering stare. After a moment, Castiel shuts the book still resting on his lap, sets it aside, and stands up.

"So if you aren't here to egg my car, I'm going to assume you still need assistance."

"Yeah," Dean says, and winces. "My kitchen is...destroyed. And something was just screaming in my walls last night."

Castiel frowns. He gestures into the back room and Dean takes the same seat as last time.

"Start from the beginning," he says. "Where do you live?"

"The apartments on Furth," Dean says. "Why, you happen to know whether it was built on top of a cemetery or something?"

"Occasionally I do. Those apartments were built on unused land, however. That's not your issue."

Great. It couldn't have been something that simple. Although any ghost probably isn’t that simple.

"So what?" Dean says. "My realtor lied to me and a previous tenant got murdered and then got stuck?"

Castiel shrugs, recollecting the candles from the cabinet in the corner, arranging them in a triangle, and lighting them. "That's possible," he says. "I doubt it, considering I have been here for some time and no such deaths ever came across my radar, and I'm sure a strongly emotional presence like that one would be would not leave me alone for long."

Okay. So Dean knows he's here for himself. But Castiel has just made himself so much more damn intriguing.

"Whaddya mean 'wouldn't leave you alone?'" he asks.

"If there was a murder victim's spirit in the vicinity, they would be drawn to me. I'm like a conduit for them, Dean. They can communicate through me but they can also accomplish tasks with my assistance. The stronger the emotion behind the spirit's passing, the stronger their presence on this plane whether they are stuck here or choose to revisit. Take the suicide victim I told you about. His death was highly emotional, so I talk to him a lot. Suicides and murders tend to be the most potent."

"They can accomplish tasks through you? So what, like possession?"

Castiel's hands furl into fists. He draws a deep breath and then he levels Dean with a rather stern look. "We aren't here to discuss me," Castiel says, and Dean is reminded of, like, the two therapists he's walked out on ten minutes into the first appointment. "We're here to discuss the spirits ruining your life."

Dean cringes at the outright bluntness. But Castiel isn't completely wrong, and he seems like he doesn't sugarcoat things in general anyway, so it's no skin off Dean's nose.

"Yeah, uh, they kinda suck," Dean says. "It started about a month ago. Just the door on one of the bathroom cabinets fell off and my jar of mustard miraculously escaped from the fridge to break open on the floor. The first time I thought it was just some weird one-off, but then it happened a second time a week later, and a third time last week."

Castiel hums. "The same thing? The cabinet door and the mustard all three times?"

Dean nods.

"That's low-level," Castiel says. "You're probably not dealing with anything big. Except that, wait a minute, did you say before your whole kitchen is destroyed?"

"Uh, kinda?"

"What's the story with that?" 

"Uh," Dean says. "Well, on Friday night, I woke up to like, glass shattering and shit, and when I got up, every mug and glass and fragile thing had been smashed to bits, my shelves were destroyed, and every container in my fridge had burst open and sprayed shit everywhere."

Castiel narrows his eyes. "What happened between Friday and today?"

"Well, my toothpaste tube exploded in my hand on Saturday and like I said before, something was screaming its dead little heart out last night in my freaking walls."

"Dean," Castiel says. "I'd like to see if there's a spirit attached to you. Does anything happen away from your apartment?"

Dean thinks for a moment. "Not to my knowledge."

Castiel thinks for a moment. Dean watches his eyes, the way they linger on Dean's eyes before sweeping down over his face and the rest of his body. Dean crosses his arms against the scrutiny; he's starting to wonder if being a medium comes with x-ray vision, or something, because this guy's looks are just so...intense.

"Okay," Castiel says. "Close your eyes."

Dean complies, expecting Castiel to start spouting pig latin or start asking spirits to reveal themselves or whatever, and is totally caught off guard when Castiel's fingertips press against his forehead.

"Uh," Dean says, rather eloquently, but Castiel shushes him rather indignantly.

Cas's fingers twitch. He flattens his whole palm against Dean's head the way you would if you were checking someone for a fever, and then he finally removes his hand.

"Uh, Cas?" Dean says, putting on his best poker face. "What the fuck was that?"

"Castiel," he corrects, absently. He's staring at his hands, but then he looks up at Dean and sighs. "There's nothing attached to you, which means the spirit is attached to your apartment."

"Great," Dean says. "Freakin' fantastic."

"Take me there."

"What?"

"Your apartment. Take me there."

Dean blinks. "I--what? Why?"

Castiel shoots him a look. It's a look he's seen on Sam before, a kind of 'you're not seriously asking me this question' kind of stare.

"If the spirit is attached to your apartment, I will be of more help to you there," Castiel says. "I can do nothing to help you from here."

So that's how Dean ends up with a very strange man riding shotgun in his Baby and leaving probably-greasy fingerprints over everything he keeps brushing his hands over. Castiel had offered to drive himself if Dean just gave him an address, but Dean's no slouch. Medium who can bust freeloading ghosts or no, he's still a stranger. Hell, Dean can probably count on one hand everyone he's given his address to.

Castiel just kind of stares around when Dean pulls into the parking lot of his admittedly less-than-gorgeous apartment complex. It's no five-star joint, but Dean can afford it and he likes the layout, sue him.

"Alright," Castiel says. He has a tattered backpack with him that he packed full of things from the shop before they left, and now he hoists it onto one shoulder. "Take me to your apartment."

Dean rolls his eyes once his back is to Castiel. For fuck's sake, the dude is wearing a long, tan trench coat over his t-shirt (plain blue this time) and jeans. Strange doesn't quite manage to cover this dude.

They climb the four flights of stairs to Dean's place in silence. Castiel has a crease in his face where his eyebrows have been furrowed since the second floor landing. Dean kind of wants to ask, but he also doesn't want to find out a ghost is out for his blood in the stairwell. Let that happen in his own home, however destroyed the kitchen is.

Castiel doesn't say anything as Dean unlocks his door, but when they step inside, his sharp intake of breath is impossible to miss. Dean thinks it's in response to the state of his kitchen, at first, but Castiel isn't looking that way; he's staring down the hallway that leads to Dean's bedroom.

"Dean," Castiel breathes after a moment. "Do you have anything here you may have inherited from your father?"

Dean blinks. "My car," he says slowly. "A few bits and pieces here and there, I'm sure. Why? Can't be the old man giving me this crap, he just left me a voicemail on Tuesday."

Castiel waves him away, advancing into the kitchen, towards the hallway he can't tear his eyes away from. "Your father isn't here. His son is."

"His--hold on a second, man, you gotta be kidding me. Sam's alive and kickin' out in Lebanon.”

"No, Dean," Castiel hisses, and his voice is hard, edged with frustration. He rounds on Dean with a hard glare. "If you would just shut up and let me work this out without contradicting me every thirty seconds, this would work a lot faster. I know this must be confusing. I will explain everything that I can. But you are breaking my concentration."

Dean holds his hands up. He mutters a sorry before Castiel can chastise him further, then heeds his words and shuts up while he watches him work.

Castiel keeps stalking slowly toward that hallway, one hand braced on his backpack strap. Dean follows a little behind him, blushing beet red when Castiel turns into his bedroom strewn with dirty boxers and empty takeout containers and an unmade bed.

Castiel doesn't seem to notice any of that, though. He's muttering to himself, now, although Dean supposes it's possible he's actually muttering to a spirit, and he goes straight for Dean's nightstand drawer, offers a strained "in here?" to whoever he's talking to, and then yanks the drawer open and starts digging through it.

Dean jumps forward, yells "hey!" at the blatant violation of his privacy, but Castiel either doesn't care or is so absorbed he truly doesn't hear him.

Castiel emerges with a baseball Dean forgot he even had. He nods to whoever he's talking to, leaves the room, and sets the baseball down on the cracked kitchen counter before he grabs Dean's sleeve and drags him out of the apartment and into the hallway.

"The spirit in there is Adam Milligan," Castiel says. The way he says it makes it clear he's expecting a big reaction, but Dean just raises his eyebrows.

"And?"

Castiel rolls his eyes and huffs. "Your father is John Winchester, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Adam Milligan, from what he has just told me, is John's son."

Dean takes a moment. When it still doesn't make any sense, he shifts his weight to the other foot and then starts gesturing. "Wait, wait, wait. You're saying Sam and I have another brother?"

"You had a half-brother, yes."

"But why's he here? It's not like we ever knew he existed."

"Something else killed him," Castiel says. "Something big, something that scares him. He won't speak its name. Whatever it was, it knows the Winchester name according to Adam, and sent his spirit here. He doesn't want to hurt you, Dean. He wants to go to Heaven."

"So then what's with all the fanfare? Why destroy my kitchen and wail in my walls to try to get home?"

"Spirits cannot communicate easily with the ordinary human. He was trying to make his presence known so that you would banish him."

"Oh, yeah, sure, real simple," Dean deadpans. "I banish spirits all the time. Piece of cake. Now, how, exactly, are we supposed to banish him?"

"There are a few things we'll have to do," Castiel says. He opens his backpack, reaches in, and withdraws a bundle of--are those herbs?

"We'll have to burn this," Castiel says. "It's a smudging stick. It's going to cleanse your apartment. We're also going to burn the baseball that Adam is tethered to. The rest is up to me and Adam."

Dean nods as if he's just been told what to order for lunch, like he totally understands exactly why they're doing this and exactly what the plan is.

But then Cas is opening his door and ushering them inside. He hands Dean the baseball and a lighter, uses a second lighter to make the bundle of herbs start to smolder, and gestures for Dean to light the baseball. Dean holds up a finger, opens the kitchen window, and beckons Cas over so that the smoke hopefully doesn't set off any alarms.

"Alright, Adam," Castiel says, loud enough for Dean to hear. "I am going to help you cross over."

Dean grabs a bowl to throw the baseball into because he's about three seconds away from burning his fingers, but he doesn't stop watching Castiel. His eyes are closed and he's breathing fast, a slight sheen of sweat breaking out and shining on his skin.

"Adam," Castiel growls. "Do not fight me. I am only trying to assist. It will be much easier for you to cross over if you go along with me."

Great. Spirit wants to leave so bad he trashes Dean's place and now, with the opportunity within ghostly fingers' reach, he's getting cold feet. That's great.

Castiel's muttering again. His words are harsh and quick and Dean's not sure whether to take it as a good thing or as a bad thing.

The baseball is burning, the smoke heavy and greenish. Castiel is rapidly paling as the baseball melts down, and he grips onto the counter as if he needs it to hold him up. He offers another strained string of instructions to Adam, and at the same moment that the baseball disintegrates into ashes completely, Castiel cries out and loses his grip on the counter, crashing to the floor and dropping the burning herbs. Dean quickly collects them into the bowl, then crouches and plants a hand on Castiel's shoulder.

"Hey, you okay?"

Castiel waves him away. "Fine," he says, voice breathy and weak. He's pale and starting to tremble, but his gaze is steady when they make eye contact. "Take the smudging stick around your whole apartment. You can pray for it to be cleansing, if you want, or you can simply walk with the stick. That'll clean--" he breaks off coughing.

"Yeah, alright, man, take it easy," Dean says. He gives Castiel's shoulder a hesitant pat and then stands up straight.

He follows the directions, minus the prayer part, and when he returns to the kitchen, Castiel is still on the floor, head tilted back against the lower cabinets and eyes shut. Dean watches him take a deep breath and then swallow, eyes drawn, yet again, to the smooth column of his throat. There's stubble on his jaw, trailing a little ways down his neck, that Dean knows he noticed the last time too, but damn. He never really took himself for such a horny guy. Well, okay, that's a lie, Dean's always open to a good lay, but there are, admittedly (and unfortunately, a small voice at the back of his mind offers) bigger fish to fry.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says. He sets the bowl full of still-warm ashes on the counter and then sits down next to him.

"You're still the only one that calls me that," Castiel says. "Even if it's only been today. I believe I asked you not to."

"Oh. Sorry. Just a lot easier than your full name all the time."

Castiel chuckles a little. It's maybe a little bitter. "Yes. I was going to say I take it back. You can call me Cas."

Dean shakes his head, grins a bit. He takes stock of Cas, still sickly pale and trembling slightly.

"So I suppose I owe you for your services," Dean says, only a little jokingly.

"Mm, yes. I'll just remember your address and have Meg bill you."

"What number apartment am I, sleepyhead?"

Cas makes a face. "I don't know. I'll look on my way out."

"Okay," Dean says, trying not to laugh at the fact that Cas has yet to open his eyes since Dean reentered the kitchen. "But, hey, what was that? Why did you just collapse?"

"I'm a conduit, like I said before. Spirits can use my body, which is a lot more solid than theirs, as a bridge to tether onto temporarily while we burn their tether on this plane of existence. Then they can springboard off of me into the next realm."

Damn. Of all the explanations Dean was considering, that wasn't exactly one of them.

"Alright," Cas says after another moment. "Please take me back to the shop so I can drive home."

"Nope."

Castiel's eyes pop open at that. They narrow indignantly at Dean's refusal. "You can't make me stay here. I don't even know you."

"Hey, I don't know you either, sweet cheeks," Dean says, then elects to completely ignore what he just called Cas, who's frowning now. "But you look wrecked. You didn't even open your eyes that whole time. I don't exactly trust you to drive back to your place right now."

Cas huffs. "You can't make me stay here."

"No," Dean agrees. "But at least then I can buy you breakfast in the morning and you have somebody to make sure you make it through the night okay."

"I'm not a _child_," Cas spits. He's full out glaring at Dean now. "Or an invalid, or whatever you're picturing me as. Adam is far from the first spirit I have ever banished and I have banished more alone than I have in the presence of others. I don't need you to keep an eye on me, as you're suggesting."

"Alright, I'm sorry," Dean relents. "But come on, man. Sure, it's not that late, but you look exhausted. You can't want to drive right now any more than I want a hole in my head. Just crash here for the night."

Cas huffs. His nostrils flare, and he crosses his arms and looks away from Dean, staring at one of the crooked cabinet doors.

"Fine," he offers tightly. "I'll sleep on your couch."

"No way, dude,"Dean says. "I'm in better shape right now, I can afford a night without my mattress. You take my room."

"Dean--"

"I will hear no arguments," Dean says. He stands up and offers his hand to help Cas off the floor. "There's no more ghost hissy fits happening from here on out, so I owe you one. Just take the damn bed."

Cas nods, tersely.

They retire early. Dean lets Cas use his shower and offers to loan pajamas, but Cas flushes straight to the tips of his ears and declines.

Cas disappears into Dean's room not long after emerging from the shower and accepting the sandwich Dean made out of the slim pickings in his fridge.

Dean watches TV for a while, fucks around on his phone, has a beer. When he takes a piss and brushes his teeth he peeks into his room, just to offer a goodnight, but Castiel is spread eagled on the bed, lights still on, mouth open and snoring, loudly. Dean snorts and shuts off the lights, then retires to his own bed for the night, burrowing into the couch cushions and pretending it's his nice memory foam mattress he splurged on about a year ago. Best purchase he's ever made.

Dean sleeps through the night. He has no dreams about Mary or Sam and nothing wakes him.

That is, until about nine in the morning, when someone has the audacity to knock on his door.

"Comin'," Dean groans, still half-asleep, and struggles out of his couch-blanket-pillow nest. He opens the door expecting some ever-chipper kids looking for money for fundraisers or Jehovah's Witnesses begging him to convert, without even offering any cookies from the dark side, but when he stops scratching at his belly and looks into the hallway, he's greeted by two wickedly grinning familiar faces.

"Uh," Dean says, struck dumb by the sight of his brother and his fiancé on his doorstep.

"Surprise!" Jess says, lunging forward to hug him. "We thought we'd come visit you since we know you haven't been out in a while and you won't see us much before the wedding."

"Uh," Dean says again, offering a strained smile as Jess breaks the hug and the couple steps into his apartment. Sam gives him a totally manly embrace and then they set their bags down next to the pullout couch Dean neglected to actually pull out last night because he'd forgotten it could do that until this precise moment.

Sam's just starting to launch into some sort of tirade when there's a hoarse, confused "Dean?" from the end of the hall and all three of them freeze. Dean mentally facepalms while Sam and Jess perk up with interest.

And damn Castiel for daring to walk into the kitchen rubbing his eye, still wearing last night's rumpled clothes and sporting bedhead so messy Dean just knows it's already been catalogued as sex hair.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, trying not to groan in frustration.

Cas looks up then, spots Sam and Jess sitting at the kitchen table, and freezes. His eyes go wide and his ears--damn, his ears are wicked red.

"You didn't tell me you were expecting visitors in the morning," Cas says, turning to Dean with the most innocently embarrassed look Dean's ever seen on another grown man. "If you had, I never would've stayed last night."

Fuck it all to hell. Castiel's just digging Dean a grave. Digging both of them a grave. Dean's gonna have a reason to use it in another minute, but first he has to deal with the very excited looks on Sam and Jess' faces. Sam looks like he was just told all the puppies in the world got adopted, or something.

"Who's this, Dean?" Jess asks.

"I'm Castiel. I was just helping Dean out with something."

Dean cringes.

Sam's grin grows sly. "Just helping him out, huh? Been a long time since I've heard someone say that about Dean after a night in his bed. I'm Sam, by the way." He stands and offers a hand to Cas. "I'm Dean's younger brother, and this is Jess, my fiancé."

"Nice to meet you both," Cas says, clearly uncomfortable. He looks much more awake and the weight of his own words seem to be sinking in from the way he looks at Dean, eyes wide with horror as he stiffly shakes Sam's hand.

"Oh, this is awesome, Dean," Jess crows. "I mean, I know we didn't tell you you had a plus one for the wedding, but Castiel is, of course, totally welcome to come with you!"

Cas and Dean must have similarly fear-stricken, gaping looks of shock on their faces, because Sam and Jess suddenly look rather awkward themselves.

"Hey, man, we're sorry," Sam offers. "If we knew you had a new boyfriend and he was here, we never would've just dropped by unannounced. We can head out if you need us to."

Dean clears his throat. He wonders if everyone in the room can hear his brain whirring like a stressed, overheated computer. "Uh, no, Sam, that's alright. We both have work, today, though."

"Oh, sure," Sam says easily. "Jess and I'll go find something to do."

They're out the door by the time Dean's brain completely catches up, so the only one Dean ends up saying "he's not my boyfriend" to is Cas, who's still frozen in the mouth of the hallway.

Great.

**Author's Note:**

> Also you can find me as kj_graham on Twitter and kj-graham18 on Tumblr!


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